It’s been ages since I updated this. Let’s see how much the world has changed (Galadriel narrates this next part…just kidding.)
Coronavirus cases went down, then up again—the election ended (or did it?), and season 4 of The Crown finally premiered. Our family moved out of our little apartment into a house with Magnolia-approved wall color and granite kitchen countertops. It has an open floor plan and a great echo, so Andrew and I dance and sing a lot. It has a yard. That might be the best feature—a yard that borders a field with tall grass, and where we can hear the snipping sounds of little animals eating as fast as they can before the hawks come around. Yeah, the hawks swoop down in the mornings and evenings, which is why a bird feeder for song birds was a big waste of money, except for the hawks to lean against it while they smoke their cigarettes. It’s a perfect house.
Oh, and the other night, I woke up to hear some dripping coming from our bathroom…
Now I know what you may be thinking (no I don’t, I don’t know your life)— “Probably the shower…or bathtub…or sink. You’re a homeowner now, learn to fix stuff. This is a blog about adulthood, after all.” That’s what I thought. So I dutifully dragged myself out of bed and turned on the bathroom light, where I could see my tired face in that perfect lighting (tired, but looking great…that’s what good lighting will do, y’all). I checked the shower—no drips. The sinks—no. The toilet—
The dripping wasn’t a leak. It was a mouse. Swimming in our toilet bowl, flailing around for his life—a little gray mouse.
I don’t remember what happened after that, except I alerted my husband to the situation and ran into the kitchen to make coffee…I jumped when I opened the drawer, thinking the spoon was a rodent. Then I jumped when I turned around, thinking my shoe was a rodent.
Thom finally came out like nothing had happened— “Did you…take care of it?” I asked.
My husband, the animal lover and probable werewolf, shrugged. “Oh yeah, I scooped him out and put him outside. I heard some barking last night…maybe a coyote was after him…”
I reflected as I sipped coffee, realizing it was 5:30 and probably time to get up, that this had ended perfectly for all involved. The mouse, who we’ll call Wyler (since Andrew names everything Wyler for some reason—that happened during Quarantine, don’t ask), survived and was not flushed. And if I’d gone in there literally moments later, he’d have drowned. And we would have gone to the bathroom and—
You know, things could always be worse. Yes, 2020 is the worst. But as I told Thomas, “I’m basically a hero. Wyler could’ve drowned.” Sure, Thom was the one who saved him while I hid in the kitchen. Sure, I’m not eager to repeat the experience. And my first thought was not, “Oh, poor little guy, let’s help him post haste!” It was, “How long has this intruder been in my brand new house, helping himself to Cheez-its and reading my diary and stealing our identities?” But every little bit of altruism helps.
Anyway, it’s good to be back. Let this be a warning to you humans…check on the dripping sounds. And to mice…look both ways, I guess.
Stay safe, team.